


I'll Be King

by 21PilotsDead



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: BDSM, Dark, Gay Sex, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Prison, Prison Sex, Rough Sex, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21PilotsDead/pseuds/21PilotsDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Inspired by 'Heathens']<br/>Tyler Joseph is waiting on death row for the heinous crimes he committed. Josh Dun is a corrections officer who falls in love with him. How does it feel to love someone who has been sentenced to die?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I was the Storm

All my friend's are heathens...  
~~~

Storm clouds persisted for me. While the sun shone outside, in the shelter of my skull storm clouds remained. They blanketed the skies of my mind, an oppressive low pressure system. Dark grey nimbostratus clouds hung heavy, with charged ions racing around threatening lightning at any moment.

Lightning was dangerous. It caused nothing but damage, wherever it struck. Entire forests burnt to the ground when lightning struck. The thunder was bombastic as it resonated through the ruins of what once was. These storms killed people. Too many people to count on both hands.

The storm was me, I was the storm.


	2. I Want to Know Him

Take it slow...  
~~~

The quiet was enough to drive one insane. But what did the silence do to those who were insane already.

I would have to wait and see for myself.

Nothing about prison bothered me except for the fact that I could no longer kill. At times I could be agoraphobic so I found the small size of my cell to be comforting. The food was far from gourmet but I rarely ate anyway so I didn't mind.

I missed talking to people, the only voice I heard was the sound of a guard telling me what to do. If it was a cute guard then I didn't mind being told what to do. If it was an ugly one I minded a bit more. Most of the time it was a cute one whose name tag read Dun.

He smiled at me. No one smiled in here but he smiled at me and I smiled at him. I liked him because I knew he was probably just as insane as I was. He had to be a little off his rocker to smile at a serial killer.

I stood peering through the small iron reinforced window of my cell door just to see him smile. I couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to be fucked by him. It had been a while for me. His eyes were bright and calm, but I knew they could change. My intuition alerted me to his dark side. I wanted to know him.


	3. Smile at Me

Wait for them to ask you who you know…  
~~~

“Back away from the door inmate,” the guard ordered.   
It was him, the cute smiley one named Dun so I was more than happy to oblige. “Yes sir,” I whispered under my breath as I took a few steps back. He opened the door, and finally the barrier between us was gone.  
“You have an appointment with the psychiatrist.”  
“Nice, the loony doctor wants to see me. Gee I wonder what for. Oh wait I remember it’s probably all those people I killed for fun. Sometimes it just slips my mind.” I said my voice dripping with sarcasm. I wanted to make him laugh. He cracked a smile.   
He produced a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “I have to cuff you for the walk to his office.” I smirked and held out my hands willingly.   
“Kinky.”   
He laughed. He actually chuckled. “This ain’t nothing boy.”  
As he cuffed me I couldn’t help but smirk. “Really.”  
I saw that he remembered where we were and he had to rain in the conversation a little bit, unfortunately.   
“Come on inmate,” he said as he gripped onto my arm and began to drag me out of my cell. “You need to get there on time or it’s my ass on the line.”  
“Yes sir, I wouldn’t want to harm that ass. Well maybe in a different situation but not something petty like this.” He smiled.


	4. Suggestion Box

Please don't make any sudden moves…  
~~~

It was a different guard who came to escort me back to my cell after my psych appointment. For that I was deeply disappointed, I wasn’t done flirting. This guard was a big burly guy with a dark brown beard and a neanderthal brow. A total bear, but definitely not my type. I went more for twinks.   
He didn’t have a sense of humor at all. One wise crack out of me and he tried to rough me up. I just laughed and told him I’m a masochist. That made him angry but he didn’t try again. What a pity. He uncuffed me and shoved me into my cell before slamming the door shut again. I shouted at him from behind the door.   
“It was great talking to you Piscatella.”  
I had nothing to do but sit around and think. I had so much time to think about so many things. It was then that my eidetic memory came in useful. I could remember every single one of my many kills. Every scream, every drop of blood, every dismembered body part. All of it was organized in my mind by gender, race, and hair color.   
I sat in an almost hypnotic trance remembering the feel of flesh in my hands. The feeling of crushing windpipes and watching as the light drained out of their eyes. The fear was the best part. Nothing made me harder than the sight of pure unadulterated fear in the eyes of one of my victims. It was so visceral and I had complete control over it.   
To think that I would never get to kill again was slightly depressing. But soon enough I would be dead and it wouldn’t matter anymore. Part of me wished for a more violent death than lethal injection. That was the death of a pussy. I wanted something a bit more hardcore. Something painful. The process of death might be just a bit more enjoyable if I could go out with a bit of pleasurable pain.   
I wondered if there was a suggestion box somewhere around here?


	5. Pity Party

You don't know the half of the abuse…  
~~~

Many psychiatrists and psychologists pitied me. Of course they feared me and my fucked up mind. But once I told them of my childhood a part of them sympathized with me because in their minds it justified who I was. Sure I had ‘suffered’ a fair bit of what many would consider to be horrible abuse. But I liked to think I was born as fucked up as I was ever going to be.   
Don’t sell me short.   
The prison psychiatrist was a poor excuse for a man. Middle aged, balding, with a spirit that had been completely crushed by the system. He was in charge of providing psychiatric help to those who were sentenced to die. What a thankless job. I didn’t need his pity, but he needed mine.   
It was unfortunate that I couldn’t put him out of his miserable mundane existence. But alas I decided to spare him, if only because it would be difficult, although not impossible, to kill him while handcuffed.   
Maybe prison was making me a better person. Huh.   
No that wasn’t it. He just didn’t quite fit the profile of the type I liked to kill. It was simple to judge someone I wanted to kill. If I would fuck them, then I would kill them. Simple. I did not want to fuck someone who looked like a sad dad. Not my type at all.


End file.
